The Desk in the Lord's Solar
by Second Star On The Left
Summary: The furniture in the lord's solar at Highgarden is very beautiful, and Sansa loves it. Sansa/Willas PWP


**AN: You know those porny AUs where nobody cares what the political makeup of the Seven Kingdoms is anymore?**

**This is one of them. Be warned, I get the weirdest filthy Victorian vibe from these two, and it just comes across here so much.**

As an aside, I'm not sure if Sansa is OOC here or not – but I think she could totally become this person, given time and a lover she could trust completely. Also, I've never really written PWP before, so I'm not sure if this qualifies or if it works. Opinions?

**Written in celebration of my 180th follower on tumblr for the prompt: Sansa/Willas, he loves to pleasure her on his desk.**

* * *

Willas' desk in the lord's solar is a beautiful thing, an antique of polished, stained oak carved with every manner of flower and living thing imaginable, topped with cool green marble shot through with gold. Sansa heard someone say that it's been in Highgarden since the castle was built, or near as makes no difference, and she can easily imagine the Kings of the Reach managing their domain from Willas' solar, from behind Willas' desk.

The power and history of it always has her breathless even before he pushes her down onto it, which he does with a sinfully delightful regularity - there's something about the possibility of getting caught that thrills both of them in a way that makes them blush to think of.

So often, in fact, does he take her on his desk that the servants have begun giving the solar a wide berth if they see Sansa slipping in and pulling the heavy rose-patterned doors closed behind her - it has gotten to the stage where she doesn't even need to bar them anymore.

Sometimes she just sits on the edge of the desk at his elbow, legs crossed and dainty slipper dangling off her toe. Sometimes she sits opposite him, leaning on her elbows in such a way as to emphasise her cleavage in just the right way to distract him from his work.

Sometimes, if she's feeling particularly daring, or if he's been away for any length of time beforehand, she'll simply push all of his papers aside and sit on the desk right in front of him. He has a way of looking at her when she does that, of tilting his head to the side with the faintest hint of a smile and the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow that leaves her... Antsy.

"Little wolf," he warns, his smile blooming fully as his eyes follow her skirts up her legs. "I have work to do."

"Your duties are not just to your people," she reminds him, "but also to your wife."

He laughs at that, his hands wrapping around her knees - his hands are huge, fingers long enough to close around both of her wrists together or almost to meet around her waist - so he can pull her closer. Her skirts slip under her, leaving her bare skin against the chill marble (there's no point in wearing smallclothes when she comes to his study, they'll only get ruined or lost or, on one memorable occasion, thrown carelessly out the open window into the rosebushes several stories below).

"Well, I must not be remiss in my duties," he agrees, lifting her leg over his shoulder and shifting his chair closer to the desk. She leans back easily on her hands, watching him half in amusement, half in achy anticipation, and it takes an age for him to pull his eyes away from hers to nuzzle into the crease of her knee. "You've been adding something new to your bathwater," he notes, tongue flicking out to taste her skin. "Rosemary?"

"Not at all," she lies lazily, tipping her head back so her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders. "Why, it isn't as though you mentioned liking the scent of rosemary when we... Ahem, when I tumbled in the gardens, is it?"

He chuckles into her thigh, his breath warm against her flushed skin but cooler than his open mouth as he bites his way deeper into her, sucking on the marks his teeth make to ensure that she's left with bruises to remind her of him when he leaves in the morning. He likes to mark her anyways, sometimes keeps her sitting on his desk for long hours after they've made love to draw idle patterns on her body with his softest pen and most indelible ink, but he's always particularly careful to leave something to brand her when he's due to be away from her.

"Rosemary does compliment your natural scent most... Enticingly. You are filthy sometimes, my lady," he adds, hitching her other leg over his shoulder and breathing deeply. "Do I detect a hint of lavender?"

"You do like lavender," she sighs, lifting one hand to wind her fingers through the soft thickness of his hair. She loves his hair almost as much as he loves hers, loves the way the light picks out strands of gold and copper and bronze from the mass of unruly chestnut. "Especially when _I _smell of it."

"Filthy girl," he reiterates, leaning closer and breathing out against her. "Filthy, dirty, wanton girl," he corrects himself with a quiet laugh. "You've been waiting all morning to visit me, haven't you?"

"You were hard in your breeches as soon as I walked through the door," she mocks, drawing in a sharp breath when he presses his mouth open over her sex. "There's no point in denying it."

"Oh hush," he murmurs, cradling her backside in those long fingers when she lifts her hips off the desk, nearer his mouth, and opening her up with his thumbs. "I sometimes think that your cunt is prettier every time I look at it."

"Shame the same could not be said of your cock," she teases, biting her lip and trying to urge him along.

"I never hear any complaints from you about my cock," he says sternly, lifting his head and raising a reprimanding eyebrow at her. "Just for that-"

"Don't dare!" she gasps, laughing even as she pushes his face into her cunt and he licks - _oh, _he knows precisely where to touch her - and her laughter trails off into a moan. "Oh, withholding your services is a punishment to both of us. You'll never do that, my lord."

"My self-control is legendary," he says, his voice muffled against her nub and all but drowned out by her shaky whimper. "I'll have you begging within a week, my wanton little wolf."

Her back arches harder with every little bit further he presses his tongue into her, her breath coming in shorter bursts as he eases two of those clever fingers up inside her and fixes his lips around her nub.

"One would almost think that you were in heat, little wolf," he comments, lifting his mouth away from her for just long enough to murmur the words against her thigh and mark her skin once more. "Almost," he sighs, lowering his head again and not releasing her - because even though he's between her legs, his head is cradled between her thighs and hands, _he _is in control, just as he always is when he has her on his desk - until she's shaking, until her arm gives out behind her and she's slumped on the desktop with her legs spread across his shoulders and her spine curved so high she feels as if she'll snap clean in two.

"What do filthy little wanton wolves do, my love?" he croons, fucking her mercilessly with his fingers and lapping against her nub with his tongue. "Tell me Sansa, tell me what they do. Tell me what _you _do, little wolf, tell me."

"Oh, _Willas," _she wails, wishing she was nude so that the marble underneath her could cool her overheated skin, because she feels now as if she might burn to ash before she breaks apart, and he knows it, damn him, he knows well. "Oh, _please, _oh, oh, Willas, oh-"

He has the audacity to laugh at her, the bastard, and the shudders of the sound are almost enough to send her careening off the edge - almost, but not quite - and then he's talking again, not that she hears half of what he's saying.

"Tell me what you need, Sansa," he says, an edge to his voice that wasn't there a moment ago, a hoarseness that she knows means he's enjoying this near as much as she is, more on some levels. "Just say it, sweet girl, tell me what you need and I'll do it, anything for you-"

"Please," she moans, and that's all she has to say, all she has to do before he's busy back between her legs, his lovely mouth working her into a frenzy before she can so much as tighten her grip on his hair. "Oh, gods, you _bastard-"_

"I can find one of those for you if you'd like," he quips into her cunt, crooking his fingers inside her and sucking hard on her nub until she's seeing stars and her gown is sticking to her.

He pulls her skirts back down and helps her to sit up, and he holds her hands with a wicked, wicked grin on his face until the blush fades from her cheeks and she can breathe normally again.

Just to punish him for likening her to a bitch in heat, she sweeps out and leaves him as hard as he was when she swept in.

* * *

His chair, now, his chair is another story. It's the same wood as his desk, but it's richly upholstered in green velvet that matches the deep colour of the marble desktop, studded with gold rosette buttons and so deep that even Willas' big frame sinks back into it.

Sansa has come to love the feel of the velvet under her knees, and the top of the back is marked with half a hundred tiny crescents from her nails.

In Willas' chair, _Sansa _is in control – she can hold him in place with the weight of her body on his hips, the shift of her cunt around his cock, the twist of her fingers in his hair.

The silk scarves she uses to tie him to the arms of the chair help, of course, but they're part of the fun. She loves the way his hands flex and strain as she rides him, loves the way he reaches for her desperately even though he knows it's pointless.

She sometimes ties a scarf over his eyes, which he hates and loves in equal measure, because she knows that he relishes the chance to let her take the reins, as it were – he has so much responsibility, both in and out of their marriage, that it's a relief for her to take over sometimes.

Even rarer, if she's feeling truly, madly daring, she'll tie a scarf around his mouth so he can't even speak, and there's something about the absolute control she has over him when he's bound at the wrists and blind and mute that pushes her somewhere that she fears to go too often, because she's not sure she'll be able to come back if she becomes a frequent visitor.

Today, she leaves his face free.

"Wicked girl," he reprimands approvingly as she takes her time over unbuttoning his doublet and pushing it open. She loosens the laces at the neck of his shirt next, exposing as much of his smooth, freckled skin as she can, and then she steps back.

"I like you like this," she says lightly, trailing her fingers from the corner of his jaw to the hollow of his throat and then out left along his collarbone. "Pliant. Malleable."

"Filthy wench," he corrects himself, voice hoarse and head tilted back to expose his throat to her. She takes advantage gladly, leaning in just close enough to trace her tongue over his Adam's apple, to suck it gently into her mouth and nip oh-so-softly. He moans, high and needy, and she loves that all it takes to get him hard is for her to appear in the door with a couple of scarves draped around her shoulders, that she can drive him to desperation with only a few touches. "Filthy, immoral wench."

"Amoral," she corrects, sliding her hands under the hem of his shirt and laughing at the shift of his stomach under her palms. "I have no morals at all when it comes to you, husband."

"The things I'll do to you as soon as you free my hands, little wolf," he promises, eyes dark and chest heaving. He hisses when she scratches lightly against his nipples, his head falling back once more and his eyes snapping shut so sharply she almost hears it. "Oh, you won't walk straight for a moon's turn by the time I'm finished with you, Sansa."

She pulls away from him completely, feeling so _powerful _when he groans in disappointment, but when she settles on the edge of the desk behind her, he leans forward in anticipation.

It's awkward to loosen her stays herself, but he prefers it when she takes it slow so it's not truly a problem. He's breathing quickly by the time she finally slips her arms from her sleeves and lets her bodice fall to her hips, leaving her in just a near-transparent silk shift from the waist up with her skirts hitched up to her knees.

"Oh, you _wanton_," he sighs appreciatively, fingers stretching and clenching on the arms of the chair. "Do you intend on sitting over there all afternoon, or is there a more pertinent reason for your disrobing in my study?"

She smiles, sugar-sweet and so coy that she knows it will drive him to distraction, and she shimmies out of her gown_, _leaving her in literally nothing but that shift and her neat little riding boots.

"How appropriate," he notes, eyes skimming the shape of her calves in the soft, supple calfskin leather. "How very, very appropriate."

"I thought so," she agrees mildly, reaching back to unwind the braids holding her hair away from her face. He loves her hair, often spends long times simply running his fingers through it and marvelling at the colour, but she knows that he loves it best when it tumbles around their faces when she mounts him.

"Sometimes I think you must have been sent to me by the gods to make up for their mistake in ruining my leg," he says conversationally, tilting his head and surveying her from top to toe, swallowing hard when his eyes drift across the reddish shadow of her mound, the pink peaks of her nipples, through the silk. "Over-compensation, perhaps, but I shan't complain."

He squirms under her when she climbs into the chair with him, sinking into the thick cushioning as she endeavours to settle her knees comfortably on either side of his hips, but he makes all the right noises when she dips her mouth to his neck again, worrying a mark into the skin behind his ear where it will be hidden by his hair.

"Hush now," she orders. "Or I shall take my own pleasure and leave you like this for the servants to find."

"Fiend," he murmurs, letting his head fall forward until his face is pressed between her breasts, displayed most becomingly by the deep neckline of her gown. "Oh, you _filthy _girl, little wolf."

He whimpers when she sets to work on his breeches, tossing his head like a whore until she gives in and kisses him, slow and lazy, countering his greedy hunger with something bordering on disinterest, one of the few things that can get under his skin enough to rile his remarkably slow temper.

"Damn you, Stark," he growls, hips bucking and eyes rolling, tied to his own chair and half-stripped and somehow still dignified in a way that makes Sansa's blood boil in her veins. "Curse you for ever coming south of the Neck, you vile little wanton-"

His fury melts back into need when she flips back the placket of his breeches and draws him out, stroking his cock with feather-light fingers, barely touching him at all, delighting in the delicious little sounds he makes, sounds almost as lovely as the obscene, wet sound of his mouth on her cunt.

"Be careful, my lord," she teases, winding her other hand into his hair and wrenching his head up so he's forced to meet her eyes. "We would not want you to lose control."

He strains up towards her, wanting to kiss her, lick into her mouth, devour her, but this chair, this heirloom of House Tyrell and Highgarden – this is Sansa's domain. Here, Willas is supplicant to her, the very thought enough to make her dizzy, and she will decide if he may kiss her or not.

She decides not for the moment, choosing instead to work him into a frenzy by setting a familiar rhythm, long, slow strokes with a twist of her wrist at the end of each movement, and he's keening and whining like the wanton he accuses her of being so often by the time she decides it's been long enough.

"Now who's like a bitch in heat," she sing-songs, sinking down onto him with a deliberate slowness, knowing that he'll push up into her as hard as he can, and he doesn't disappoint – she knows that, were his hands free, they'd be digging into her hips, pulling her down onto him hard enough to leave the insides of her thighs mottled with pale bruises.

"_Filthy," _he gasps, burrowing between her breasts again, his mouth hot and open over her skin. "So damned filthy, Sansa, you're rotten-"

She shuts him up with a roll of her hips, pressing him deeper inside her cunt, and she gets comfortable, one hand clutching the back of the chair above his head and the other sliding down her belly, around her hip, over her thigh and then back up, under the hem of her shift-

"Oh, please, Sansa," he pleads, "untie me, let me do that for you, Sansa-"

"Not _little wolf _anymore?" she asks, the lightness she was striving for ruined by how breathless her voice is. "Silly boy."

No matter that he's a decade older than her, that he's had more lovers and has generally lived a great deal more – right now, in this chair, he is Sansa's to control, to manipulate, and she loves that. Right now, desperate and wrecked underneath her, he _is _a silly boy.

Her fingers find her nub, but not before she tucks her shift out of the way so he can watch her touch herself, watch the slip and slide of her fingers over her slick flesh above the slip and slide of his cock moving in and out of her cunt.

She's close herself now, almost as close as he is, but he's the one falling visibly to pieces, his hands clenched white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, his chest rising and falling so rapidly she'd worry if it weren't normal.

"Sansa," he moans, "Sansa, please-"

She kisses him again, matching his hunger this time, pushing his head back against the velvet behind him, teeth scraping over his bottom lip and tongue twisting as deep into his mouth as she can reach, all the while rising and falling on him, riding him hard and slow, but quickening, always quickening.

"Mine, Willas Tyrell," she breathes into the curve of his shoulder a moment later, "you are _mine."_

"Yours," he groans in agreement. "Never another's, Sansa, never another's-"

It's her own fault, really, that she presses her fingers against that spot just below her nub a moment too soon and breaks them both, setting her cunt clenching tight around his cock and finishing him as she finishes herself, but she thinks the noise he makes, half a moan and half a shout of her name, is worth it.

She takes her time fixing her hair and adjusting her skirts, and really, if she didn't need his help with her stays, she'd be half-tempted to leave him tied there for the rest of the day.

* * *

It always comes back to the desk, though.

The best thing – indeed, the only good thing – about all the time Willas spends away from home doing his duty is, of course, their routine when he arrives home. Sansa will never admit it, because none but Willas could understand how exhilarating their reunions are.

He's almost always in just his shirt and breeches and boots, shirt hanging open at the neck with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He wears no adornment save a gold signet ring on the third finger of his left hand that he uses as his seal, a gift from Sansa for his name day, and she loves the look of him leaning over his desk, weight balanced unthinkingly on his good leg so as not to strain the bad, so tall and strong, and lean for how broad he is.

"Good evening," he calls without looking up, light from one side by the crystal lamp sitting on a side table near the desk. "I had hoped not to wake you with my arrival."

That's a lie, one that's repeated every time they dance this dance. He usually arrives home late at night, and while he himself rarely if ever wakes her, the commotion the servants make does, and she has found that the time needed to ensure he is settled in his solar is almost precisely the time needed to prepare herself for him.

"I was awake anyways," she says lightly, untying the belt of her robe and letting the silk slide down her shoulders to catch on her elbows. "Welcome home, my lord."

He looks up at her finally, eyes skimming over the expanse of bare skin above the deep green silk of her robes, and he smiles.

"I would go away every day if this was what always awaited me on my return," he murmurs, beckoning her closer with one hand and reaching for his cane with the other. They meet at the corner of the desk nearest the door, inches apart but neither reaching out to touch. "Like a gift all wrapped up for my name day. Exquisite."

He lifts his free hand then, cradling the back of her head with firm, gentle fingers and pulling her in for a kiss. He tastes of mulled wine, spicy and warm, and she lets her robe fall away before reaching up to twine her arms around his neck and press herself against him.

"Exquisite," he whispers again, this time against the dip over her collarbone before he turns her slowly in his arms, his tongue tracing shapes of agonising delicacy and heat across her skin. "So lovely."

His fingers brush across every single one of the scars littering her back, lines ruining everything from the beauty of the curve of her spine to the range of movement in her right shoulder, and she shivers – he never shies away from them, never speaks of them, only strokes them so carefully that she almost thinks he worries that she might break apart.

"I missed you," she sighs, leaning back into his hands, letting him guide her forward, letting him press her hips to the edge of the desk with his own, letting him rediscover the dips and swells of her body with those long, clever fingers of his.

"And I you," he assures her, his voice little more than a growl against her ear as he winds a hand into her hair and guides her down, bends her over the desk and holds her there, so gentle and careful and yet firm, so firm and confident in his power over her.

Her breath hitches when she hears him set aside his cane and unlace himself, and she whimpers in anticipation when he nudges her ankles apart with his left foot, keeping his balance on his good leg as always.

"Easy, little wolf," he soothes her, fingers drifting along the length of her spine and lower, lower, until he can press up into her with a sigh. "Oh, my sweet wanton, you _have_ been busy."

"I knew you'd be tired," she gasps, trying to push back against his hand, to get his fingers deeper inside her cunt, but he chuckles and pulls back. "Willas-"

"Hush," he murmurs gently, trailing a sticky line right across between the dimples on either side of her spine. "You know I enjoy taking care of you, sweetling."

She whines, wriggling back in search of his fingers, and even the rhythm of his other hand smoothing through the hair at her nape isn't enough to calm her.

"Behave," he warns her, his voice warm enough to bely the order inherent in everything he says when he has her like this. "Trust me, love."

She does trust him, which is the only reason she submits to him like this – just as he knows that she will never hurt him when he's tied to his chair, she knows that he will never, ever harm her even when he has her in so vulnerable a position as this, naked as her name day and held solidly in place over his desk.

She stretches her arms out to grasp at the edge of the cool marble desktop, to ground herself as he pushes inside her with infuriating slowness that has her writhing underneath him.

"Willas, please, please Willas-" she hears herself begging, arching her neck and straining against his grip to look at him, to see the pale stretch of his throat when he tips his head back and moans, one hand still twisted through her hair and the other tight on her hip.

"Hush now, little wolf," he croons, his hips rolling so damned slowly and gently that she feels like screaming, clawing and biting and doing anything at all to make his go faster, fuck her harder, but she knows that doing anything to incite him will only slow him down, make him even more careful, even softer.

Even his iron-hard self-control can't last forever, though, and soon enough he slides his hand around her hip and cups her mound to tease her nub, the thick gold band of his ring shockingly cool against her skin, enough to make her cry out first in surprise and then in maddened pleasure as his fingers rub harder and he _finally _moves quicker.

"My beautiful little wolf," he sighs, his words almost lost to her cries and the wet slap of their flesh, "oh, Sansa, my lovely wanton, what would I do without you?"

"Die of sexual frustration," she gasps out, and he laughs while she comes, his laughter strangled by a groan, a groan that curls around Sansa even as his careful rhythm fails and he thrusts into her so fiercely that she knows he'll be forced to use his wheelchair tomorrow.

They stay like that for a long while after they're finished, her bent over the desk with her sweat condensing on the marble, him behind her with his shirt stuck to his chest and shoulders and back and his breeches around his knees, and Sansa is reminded once more just how much she loves Willas' desk.

* * *

Willas' desk in the lord's solar is a beautiful thing, an antique of polished, stained oak carved with every manner of flower and living thing imaginable, topped with cool green marble shot through with gold. Sansa heard someone say that it's been in Highgarden since the castle was built, or near as makes no difference, and she can easily imagine the Kings of the Reach managing their domain from Willas' solar, from behind Willas' desk.

The power and history of it always has her breathless even before he pushes her down onto it, which he does with a sinfully delightful regularity - there's something about the possibility of getting caught that thrills both of them in a way that makes them blush to think of.

So often, in fact, does he take her on his desk that the servants have begun giving the solar a wide berth if they see Sansa slipping in and pulling the heavy rose-patterned doors closed behind her - it has gotten to the stage where she doesn't even need to bar them anymore.


End file.
